Young Girls Eat Blood and Fire
by ElyzabetShardlake
Summary: If you haven't seen Season 5 Episode 9 'The Dance of Dragon' I do not recommend reading as it contains major spoilers. I couldn't stand how the story in the North ended, so I wrote an Alternate Reality story where Shireen Baratheon will travel across the Narrow Sea and join forces with Arya Stark. Together, they are destined to help restore the Targaryen dynasty to the Iron Throne.
1. The True Lords of Light

The camp was at the centre of a labyrinth, which held no point of reference for the lost souls wandering apart from the pack. Thick pebbles of snow layered upon each other as they fell to the ground, piling around the trees and freezing on Luvnac's lashes. From far enough up the hill and set into the tree, Stannis Baratheon's camp appeared to be another cluster of rocks leading down the slope of the Wolfswood. If one were to approach closer, however, they could see the shadows of the guards moving throughout the camp, their hollow figures giving them a skeletal appearance.

He pitied them, he really did. These men were hungry, cold and likely in fear for their lives after the Bastard's attack. Luvnac had seen the carnage they had left behind, buried within the snow, buried in singed wolf-furs, his large grey eyes peering throughout the camp. Yet that did not justify what they were about to do: he had seen it with Hephaesta when he had looked into the flames. Every single man, including the little girl's father and mother, would stand silent as their Princess burned.

As his eyes circulated the camp, he noticed a few soldiers, including Davos Seaworth, ride out of the camp and slip between the clusters of pines that surrounded the camp. Luvnac's heart sank: they had seen the departure of the Hand at the high noon before the evening when the burning was to take place. The Princess had hours to live.

"I have spoken with Quaithe," Hephaesta spoke softly behind him, her voice flickering like a small candle fighting against the wind.

"And?"

"We must do what we must do for the greater good. We agree that Stannis must win the battle against the Bolton's. Yet for their success there must be a sacrifice."

"So what are we doing?"

xxxxxxxxxxx

"No! No, please! I want to speak to my Father! Father! Father!" Shireen screamed desperately for him. She could see him just over their shoulders, his eyes empty and lost. As if everything between them was a giant ocean and he was stranded where he couldn't reach her.

Why did he look like that? Of course he could reach her! All he had to do was call one word and the entire army would drag her from the stake and throw the witch upon it in her place. "Please! Father, please! Help me! No!" The witch held that burning torch aloft, an evil smirk on her face as she lowered that thing to the logs. It looked so harmless, something so small that it shrivelled as strong wind tunnelled into the camp. _Please! Please blow out! Blow out!_ Then the wind died and the fire bloomed again as it touched the logs shifting beneath her feet. It slipped towards her, taunting her like that witch's smile.

Where was her father? "Father! Father, please! No!" Why wasn't he coming? Why were they just standing there watching her scream? He had told her he loved her! That he'd summoned the world to heal her as a baby! Why wasn't he coming? _I don't understand!_ "Father!" She met his eyes across the field, but they were bare and empty. _He feels nothing! He doesn't love me! He's a liar! He lied to me! He wants the throne more than he loves me!_ "No! Mother! Mother, please!"

Shireen didn't know what made her call out for her mother, who had never shared even a smile with her daughter ever. Who had told her she was a disgrace, nothing but an embarrassment to the House Baratheon. It burned from her throat as the smoke began to scratch at her lungs. Her insides were melting, shifting, as if that fire had buried its way inside her already and consuming her from the inside out. They were at her feet, catching her leather boots, eating into them. "Mother! Help me! No! Mother! Mother!"

"No! No!" She looked up. The smoke was green and thick, she couldn't see through it. Her father remained still, but he was now alone. Amongst the soldiers, her mother was waddling, almost running but held back by her sickly frame. A few reached forward to stop Selys, but she clawed at their faces and hands. Even closer through the snow and smoke, and Shireen could see her mother's eyes ignited with their own fire. "Shireen! Stop! Shireen!"

"Mother!" Shireen called out again, her heart pooling with hope, overflowing, settling her body for a moment. _Just hold on a little longer! She's coming! Mother's coming! She's coming for you! She loves you! She'll stop them!_ "Mother!"

"Shireen! No, no get off me! Shireen, I'm coming!"

Everything was so thick now, so, so dark, she couldn't see anything. Mother continued to scream for her and she screamed back, but it was so hard. Her feet were searing, the blood in her legs boiling. The fire was catching her dress and roaring up her body. It filled her hair, stealing the little stag from her hand. Shireen screamed so hard, she didn't even know she could make those sounds. She sounded inhuman, like some demonic spirit rising to scorch the world with fire and blood. Everything was death – the grey and white stinging her eyes, the fire on her body, the sounds coming from her mouth. That was all she could see.

"No!"

Then, suddenly, the fire cloaking her body exploded white and blue, hitting her eyes like someone had spat molten lava inside them. Her vision swam from grey and white to obsidian black, as if she had suddenly been thrust into a vision where light could not penetrate. After that burst of heat though, the heat numbed her, almost falling away, leaving a sharp tingle behind, shaking her body, the logs beneath her, the pole holding her up. Ropes around her cracked, with an unusual sound, like glass and stung her hands as they fell away. _What's happening? Am I dead? Am I with the Great Other?_ She threw her hands out to find her bearings, then screamed as a hundred hands, sharp and skeletal reached out to twist her, throwing the ground out from beneath her.

 _Melisandre has sent me to R'hollor! He's coming to take me!_ Shireen opened her mouth to scream again, but ash simply filled her mouth and her voice died. Instead, her insides began to melt again, rolling around inside her body, burning her up. It stung so painfully, but when she opened her mouth, she felt a hot steam burning her gums and teeth.

"No! You won't take me! Mother! Mother! Help!"

Then the hands stopped. Maybe R'hollor had heard her and was taking pity on her. Maybe he was going to throw her back into the world. Not daring to breathe, Shireen held herself still, trying not to provoke him. A few hands shifted beneath her, gently lowering her to the floor. Above her a few sharp definitions began to come into focus, sharp and angular, like supports for the great hall where she had played in as a baby. Grey curls began coiling on either side of her, brushing her skin like cool air.

The pain in her chest suddenly burst out and she gasped for breath, panicking when the hands beneath her started and began to gently shift her, lowering her, carefully, shifting. One hand on her arm softened and stretched across her back, supporting her. Another did the same. As her sense came back into focus, Shireen realised how disorientated her brain must have been in those final moments. The hundreds of hands she had felt pulling her probably only numbered eight at most. Eight hands. Four pairs. Four people holding her. Lowering her to the ground. Four strangers. In a cold, empty room where she could breath, and her skin was cold. Jerking an arm free, Shireen brought it towards her face and held it close as her vision became more defined – there wasn't even a scratch on it. No burns. No blisters. Even her clothes were intact. The leather boots on her feet. She could feel one hand pulling on her long, greasy hair.

 _What has happened?_

Shireen began squirming, moaning. "Mother?"

"Hush Shireen," someone whispered in her ear. Her whole body was now cradled, cocooned. Their hands felt so light, yet so bony. "You're all right now."

 _What?_ "What? Wait… where? R'hollor?"

"No, Shireen, relax, you are not dead."

 _I'm not dead_? She had just been burned alive. She remembered the flames eating into her body, into her hair, into her mouth. Of course she was dead. "No, wait! Please! What?"

"You're not dead. We have saved you."

"No! What? Get off! Wait! I don't…" Shireen struggled against them as they finished lowering her to the ground, letting her body fall to the floor as softly as possible. From this position, she could see they were wearing strange masks, clinking softly as they moved around her, indicating they were made from some form of metal. What felt like straw shifted beneath her, poking at her neck, colder than snow. Stretching out to gather her surroundings, Shireen felt her arm brush something hot, and she cringed away. Turning her head, she noticed a small coal glowing red with a blue flame shrivelling in a pile of ash. "Argh!"

"Hush, Shireen, hush," the tallest of the group knelt before her, brushing some strands of hair from her face. "The fire is out. It cannot burn you."

"No!"

"Look see," the woman continued, brushing her hand into the flame for Shireen to see. Taking the coal in her hand, Shireen watched in terror as the woman held it tightly without being burned for several moments, before the coal began to crumble in her hand and fall apart like snow. "The fire is harmless."

"Oh!" Shireen moaned, pushing away, feeling the ash cling to her body, grotesquely sinking into her clothes and hair. "Where? Where am I? Mother! Father! Mother!"

"They're not here, Shireen," another one of them spoke, younger, a boy. He stepped forward gently, but with sincere authority. Reaching behind his head, he slipped the clasps open and let the mask fall from his face, but in this deep darkness Shireen couldn't see anything. One of the figures moved away from the plane of ash bedding the floor. Once she was in a position where their figure couldn't be defined, she heard a small shuffle as if their hands had been rubbing together, before several small flames blossomed from their fingertips.

"No!" Shireen flinched away, dragging her body through more ash, away from the fire. When the fire bounced from the person's fingers and into several torches adorning the walls, which seemed to be defined in a hexagonal shape. As they settled down, Shireen felt the panic returning and boiling her insides all over again. "No! Put them out! Put them out! Put them out! Mother!"

"Shireen, please…"

"How do you know my name?!"

"Our friends helped to save you. We overpowered Melisandre's magic and used the fire as a portal to bring you to us. She and all of those people think you are dead. You never have to fear them again."

"What? Wait! Who are you? Where am I? What do you mean portal?"

"Shireen, please stop panicking and we can explain," the boy repeated again. This time, neither of them spoke for several minuets, breathing hard, forcing air into their lungs to keep as calm as possible. With slow, deliberate movements, he lowered himself to his knees, his arms spread wide, bringing his face into view. His features were sharp, well defined and strong, with thick black hair falling on either side of his face and eyes so translucent, they were almost white. When he spoke again, he did so slowly and patiently. "We heard of Melisandre's association with your father shortly after the Battle of Blackwater. Her fanatical practising's of the Lord's will troubled us, especially after we heard that Robert Baratheon's bastard escaped her clutches by a matter of hours. We dispatched one of our most trusted Priestesses and her apprentice to Westeros to examine the situation more clearly. They eventually tracked her and your father's army to the North and into the Wolfswood. When they arrived they saw your sacrifice in the flames at a time when the Onion Knight would not be there to save you."

"You saw me die?"

"Not I specifically, but our friends did. They infiltrated the camp and combined their magic to overpower Melisandre's summoning of R'hollor to take you. What we performed was called the _ignis peregrinatione_ , an ancient ritual whereby a Priest or Priestess of the Lord of Light may travel using his sacred fire. It was an incredible risk – the practice has not been invoked for centuries but as you can see…" the boy gestured at her alive and whole body… "it was a success."

Shireen's head screamed in confusion, throbbing in panic. "You… you're like her! You serve R'hollor!"

"We are nothing like her!" The figure who had lit the room boomed in a deep, throaty voice. "She is a fanatic, and a power-hungry one at that! She believes the Lord should be stained with parlour tricks and that her unsanctioned burnings are his work! She willingly misinterprets our doctrine for her own ends!"

"Quiet, Yarren," hushed their leader, who saw Shireen was cringing again. Casting a disdainful glare over his shoulder towards his companion, the boy began speaking again.

"We follow the Lord of Light, R'hollor. But we do not follow Melisandre's code, or rather she does not follow ours. Though it is true R'hollor can be appeased by King's blood that is not the only course available to her. She simply chooses that course as a mode to increase her power over people – be they royalty or common." The boy's eyes narrowed in disdain for a moment, before he blinked and softened his expression again. "You need not fear. You are safe here, Shireen. We swear upon our Lord of Light, we will never let Melisandre ever touch you again."


	2. Hephaesta

Once Shireen's tightening screams vanished into the fire, Hephaesta and Luvnac drew their cloaks back around their shoulders and used the terrible, silent spectacle as their opportunity to slip back out of the camp. Behind them, they could hear Selys Baratheon screaming on the ground for her child, something that had nearly distracted them from their enchantments simply out of pure shock. Neither had foreseen in the flames that the mother would try to rescue her child – though touching and heart-warming to know that there was something redeemable within the woman, Luvnac had nearly forgotten half the incantation.

Unlike when they were entering the camp earlier that afternoon, the sentries within the surrounding trees were little trouble to slip by – distracted and haunted by Shireen's and their own silence, they made no register of the soft scuffles in the snow or the broken branch Hephaesta tripped over in her haste to clear the camp. Once they were out of immediate danger, the pair ducked into a small clearing where the dead from Bolton's raid had been buried and stripped themselves of their Baratheon colours. Pinching a small fire between his fingers, Luvnac disposed of their clothes, whilst Hephaesta retrieved their camouflage capes from a small hovel. Not even waiting to see if they were fully burned, they fled back towards their camp.

It took them another hour to reach the rock face on the rim of the Wolfswood, and a short while after they had scrambled up the vertical face and inside a small crawlspace, which took them into a large cavern. A small stream of water bled from the rocks, and away again into a small tunnel, which they had planned as their escape route should they be discovered. Once inside, Hephaesta discarded her thick cloak in front of the entrance and began piling a small cooking fire together beneath a small funnel in the ceiling. Once the first few twigs had begun wilting away, dripping their ashes into the palate, Hephaesta muttered the incantation and, seizing a handful of ash and fire, dragged the debris across a soft flat shelf of chalk.

For a moment, nothing happened, then the fire began to burn into the rock, emitting a pure red flame, splitting it open and dragging a small crack open. Blowing softly against the void opening there to disperse the black smoke pluming from its core, she called out for Quaithe.

It did not take long for her friend to appear before her, wearing her customary mask as ever. "Did she make it?" Hephaesta asked, foregoing the usual pleasantries.

"She's fine, physically. Mentally, she's traumatised. Nuski tried to calm her, but she wouldn't stop screaming. At least, not until we put the torches out. I decided she might feel more comfortable with a woman, especially one who did not look like Melisandre, so I left her with Zhuronga." Quaithe spoke evenly regarding the young princess, yet there was a tension in her voice that pulled the chords in her shoulders tight. "Hephaesta, I can do it myself."

"No Quaithe, rescuing Shireen Baratheon was my idea, my game and we played by my rules. I shall be the one to complete this rescue. Just see that the girl is delivered to those who can save her."

"I shall, Hephaesta. I shall remember you well."

"Give my regards to the Princess," Hephaesta gathered some water in an earthen bowl and poured it across the portal before she could change her mind and take Quaithe up on her offer. "Luvnac, will you help me pile the wood?"

"Yes," he hesitated. "Hephaesta, you know that I can do this, right? You do not need to…"

"Luvnac, did you not hear what I said to Quaithe. I am responsible for the sacrifice that was not made, hence I must be the one to take her place. Now help me take the wood outside for the fire."

"Won't they see the smoke from the campsite?"

"Which is why we will be performing this ceremony at night, but we should build the bonfire before it's too dark and we cannot see the ledge." Hephaesta addressed her apprentice sharply, hoping they could drag the logs through the small cracks in their ceiling up onto the main body of the cliff and out to the ditch where the glow of the fire could be masked from the camp in the distance.

Outside, the snow had stopped falling, which the pair took as a sign that they should move quickly before the winter renewed its assault on the North. Luvnac stacked some logs at the base to be pushed outside, whilst Hephaesta cleared the snow outside, leading all the way down to the ditch. If she found moss beneath the snow, she scraped it off with her hands and pocketed it in a small bag at her waist, the same with small twigs and sticks. Once she was done with that, with Luvnac's help, they dragged the logs out of the cavern and into the ditch, not bothering to give them any great ceremony by lining them up together.

By the time they had finished the bonfire, the sun was nearly set upon this day. Luvnac, twitching in a melancholic fashion, asked his mentor if she would like to get the deed over and done with, but Hephaesta simply shrugged and reminded him that it would be better once the sky was black so the smoke would not be seen. "You know," she casually remarked. "You can say what you will about the never-ending nights and the black harvests, but the winter sunsets… oh they are sublime. Small little tears of washed-out sky brighten like winter roses, blue as frost. See the sun behind grey clouds; like a candle flickering behind its shade."

"Our Lord of Light," Luvnac agreed, following Hephaesta's line of sight towards the spectacle, dimming darker and more potent with every passing second. "I see him trying to reach us in the coming darkness to shed his light upon us, to repel the Great Other that marches upon us." With a soft crick of his neck, Luvnac glanced towards his mistress – she was beautiful in a classic and unusual manner. She was blessed with dark skin that glowed like burnished copper, yet carried a full, silken mane of long, dark red hair more vivid than Melisandre's could even be. Her eyes were an unusual shade of violent violet, if that could even be the term to describe them, and shaped almost like perfect circles. Similarly, her mouth was round and full, which could curve up into a perfect smile. It was an unusual beauty, he thought, like Melisandre. Shivering, he cursed himself for drawing such a comparison between Hephaesta and the hypocrite. "I heard some of my fellow apprentices discussing the manifestations of the Great Other before we left Asshai."

"Oh," Hephaesta replied with calm curiosity. "Would you care to share?"

"I will not name names," he said quickly. "Some say that the Great Other has manifested his evil within the White Walkers, which has been proved by the vision of the Snow Prince and the Slayer, who vanquished its followers with fire and the beasts with dragonglass. I and a few others advocated the doctrine of what you teach, that as priests of R'hollor we must acknowledge that we worship the Great Other as much as the Lord of Light."

"And why is that?"

"Because our religion demands sacrifice to the Gods. Yet if death and war are the domain of the Great Other, why do we conduct the ceremonies in honour of the Lord of Light."

"So?"

"So when Priestesses make offerings for the successes of war, they worship the Great Other as much as the Lord of Light."

"You learn well. But do you believe it?"

"I do. Actually, I believe that at this time in our lives the Great Other is more present here in this world than the Lord of Light, which is why when I see that sunset I think of how far apart the darkness draws him from us."

"For the night is dark and full of terrors, indeed," Hephaesta recited the litany, watching the last remnants of the sun scatter like ash behind the earth, plunging the night into darkness. "And will they grow darker still."

Without another word, she picked up the torch and cast it upon the bonfire she had made, using the twigs and moss she had collected earlier as some kindling. When the platform of fire they had built across the ditch was effectively spread and climbing higher from its roots, Hephaesta removed the rest of her clothes and took several even breaths.

"You don't have to do this, Hephaesta. Why not let Baratheon and his army fall to the Bolton's? They don't deserve victory for what they did to that young girl."

"Stannis may be a hypocrite and destructively ambitious, but I have seen what would happen if the Bolton's rule the north – blood will run so thick through this land, it will take years to wash it from the soil. Come spring, fields will be so poisoned they won't be able to grow anything, and the water all decaying with dead bodies from their flaying's," Hephaesta turned towards her apprentice, cupping his face gently with her long fingers. "I must try."

Quietly sobbing, Luvnac squeezed his mentor's hand and let her go, watching as she walked straight into the flames without looking back, and was swallowed by the Light of R'hollor.


	3. Recovery

Shireen dragged her hand across the floor she was laid upon, shivering as her fingernails gathered grease under her fingernails. Above her, she saw a thick ribbon of silver sunlight blooming upon the opposite wall from her large window. It was circular, the size of a grown man in circumference, and lined with thick ivory panes.

The room had not been warmed since she had arrived, but in truth Shireen preferred that. The cold was her friend now, though it tormented her relentless during the night, it was better than the fire. Occasionally, someone would pass with a torch under her window and she whimpered as the rusty glow. Even, what she suspected was two days after the incident; she couldn't even bear to have a candle in her room. It was discomforting to lie in the darkness, especially after she he had been blinded so fiercely by the ritual, but it seemed to be the lesser of two evils at this point.

Her skin felt scratchy from being covered in ashes, but she had not had a chance to wash. Every time someone came into the room she would seize up in a panic and start crying again. Then she would remember Father and his indifference, the witch and her evil smile, those soldiers and her silence, Mother and her screaming…

Whenever she thought of Mother, there was small bud of happiness that swelled inside her, which also served to enhance her pain. Mother loved her – she had spent years telling her she was sinful and shameful for the House Baratheon, but when it truly mattered, Mother had come through for her. She was the one who had run through the soldiers to try and reach her, whilst her Father stood by and let her burn. _He told me he loved me. That he wasn't ashamed of me and he was proud of me. He handed me over to the witch to burn. He's a liar._

Now Mother thought she was dead. She'd never have a chance to make amends with her, to talk pas their differences together. Mother was probably in agony thinking she had been too late to help her. "Mother," Shireen moaned quietly, rubbing her fingers against her hands, trying to find the little stag the Onion Knight had given her. _It must have burned in the fire_ , she thought sadly. Whenever she thought of the stag, she thought of the Onion Knight and how he wasn't there. Would he have stood by like Father and let her die? Or would he have tried to save her?

 _Maybe that's why Father sent him away. Because he knew he'd protest against the burning and try to save her like Mother tried._ He might have succeeded as well – Mother was sickly and weak, but the Onion Knight was a solider, seasoned and experienced, who could command the loyalty of some of the men. He wouldn't have stood by and let her burn. _Will he stay by Father's side when he learns what happened?_ Shireen thought. _He'll be gone for weeks. He probably won't hear about what happened until he returns to the Camp_. She wished she could have said goodbye to him properly.

Then, for the first time in days, the door clicked open. Like window, it was made of thick ivory, and oval shaped. Flinching, Shireen bunched herself into a small ball and shrunk into a corner. It was the boy from earlier – she still didn't know his name – carrying a tray with a large water jug and a bowl filled with fruit. She eyed it suspiciously, feeling sick at the thought of having anything these Red Priests brought to her inside her body. They said they didn't want to hurt her and that Melisandre was their enemy, but she still couldn't trust them.

"I brought you some food," he said gently, setting it down on a small table next to her, and then backing away again. When he was close to the door, he knelt down on the hearthrug in her room and rested his arms on his knees. "Aren't you hungry? You haven't eaten in over two days." Shireen didn't speak, only eyed him warily. With a soft sigh, the boy shifted on the uncomfortable floor and met her gaze evenly. "I understand you're scared, Shireen. I don't think I could handle what you've been through either, but… you cannot stay here forever. Most of my friends might choose to be gentle with you and simply tell you that Asshai is no place for you to heal, which is true. But I feel like you deserve to know that although Melisandre has been banished from Asshai and our Temples, she was one of many who place too much sanctity within King's Blood." Shireen shivered, scratching at her skin, wishing she could drain all her damned King's Blood from her body. "Fear not, Shireen, these people will not act upon their beliefs with the freedom and disregard Melisandre displayed. For they are few to the many that live here and will not risk the wrath of our High Priests and High Priestesses to try and take you by stealth."

"Why do they want to kill me?" Shireen sobbed. "I haven't done anything to them. I never did anything to her. Why did she want me dead?"

"It is King's Blood," the boy explained carefully. "It is one of the greatest sacrifices to R'hollor and the Great Other that can be offered. It can give life, take life, prevent disease, win wars… and has been used for centuries by us, though recently less stock has been placed upon its potency, especially if the sacrifice is not made willingly. Melisandre, however, seems to have run into some very good luck when she used your cousin's blood…"

"My cousin?"

"Yes, your cousin," the boy looked at her quizzically. "Oh, you didn't know. From what we have been able to discern from third parties, Melisandre captured a bastard son of Robert Baratheon several months ago. She filled three leeches with his blood and gave them to your father: he then threw them into the fire whilst chanting the names of three enemies: Balon Greyjoy, Robb Stark and Joffrey Baratheon. When two of them died, it seemed your father was convinced of its power so he commanded the boy to be burned, but your friend, Sir Davos, saved him before she could."

"I didn't even know about that."

"No, I don't suppose you would. If it means anything to you, most of us don't believe Melisandre's magic was responsible for their demise – from what we can gather from correspondence with other Priests, both the King's died as a result of long-term plans that came into their initial fruition before Melisandre and Stannis's burning of the leeches."

"But he was convinced of the magic?"

"Yes. We believe so. Do not get me wrong, King's Blood and that of others is an exceptionally potent ingredient in magic, but Melisandre has neither used it with respect for the human life given to the Lord nor to our religion. She refuses to acknowledge the doctrines of consent of the sacrificing party, which is something our religion places great value upon. Without consent, the magic may still work, but it may come with crude retribution."

Shireen stopped scratching at herself, taking deep even breaths. "So you saved me because…?"

"Because your death was not necessary, not matter what Melisandre or your father may believe. It was cruel, monstrous and, we suspect, the act of an ambitious woman using her influence to remove political and personal obstacles between herself and Stannis Baratheon."

"Obstacles?"

"The world knows that Selys Baratheon is under the control of Melisandre, but she has not yet managed to completely overwhelm Stannis Baratheon. What is less commonly known was his affection and love for you and your own aversion to Melisandre, which were kept private family affairs. Our Priestess in Westeros deduced those facts from observing your history through the fires: it is part of her practice to unravel private histories of individuals who are connected to the Lord of Light. As you would have grown older, your personal relationship with your father may have influenced him. A likely outcome of that influence may have been he directed more attention to your advice, which may have resulted from Melisandre's loss of power. As well as removing your future influence, she also bound Stannis to her in a more personal fashion. She has now bound your father to her through your death – his sacrifice of you for the sake of Melisandre's cause means he is now thoroughly invested in her. For the sake of the daughter he has sacrificed, he will remain constant to the doctrine he sacrificed her for, otherwise what he has done will have been meaningless. He may also likely loose the trust and respect of many other advisors who despised Melisandre, like Sir Davos Seaworth. Sending him away was a calculated manoeuvre by Stannis to ensure had the least opposition possible, but when he returns Sir Davos will likely not remain with him, and if he does, he will never trust Stannis fully again."

Every word he said made Shireen want to weep. Knowing what Father had condemned himself to, what he had condemned her to. Why did he do it? He could have found another way to get what he wanted? "The Onion Knight did not know?"

"We believe not. We foresaw your death the evening following his departure. It seems like a reasonable assumption that Stannis would remove his strongest opposition to Melisandre from the camp before he attempted your death."

Shireen nodded, swallowing in her dry throat, rubbing it raw. "So what happens now? He thinks I'm dead."

"And it will remain that way for your own safety," he replied. "Once you are rested, bathed and strengthened we will smuggle you from Asshai and deliver you into secure hands. Afterwards, your life will be in your own hands." The boy stood again, slowly, walked towards Shireen, picked up the food tray again and passed it into her hands. "I know you're in pain, Shireen. Your family and the people who swore to protect you have betrayed you. But you still have so much to give to this world, and that is why we saved you. Now you won't be able to help yourself and anyone if you don't push forward. You won't be better from a good meal, sleep and a bathe, but it will be a start. So come on, eat up while these are fresh from Astapor. There's a warm tub of lavender-scented water waiting outside for you. You can bathe whilst eating if you prefer, I can call in some younger female apprentices to help you if you wish. We have some robes for you to change into."

Outside, another individual passed by the window with a torch, causing Shireen to flinch back into the wall once more. For the first time since she arrived, however, she hated how the fire made her afraid. It felt like the witch had won whenever she flinched away from the light. "You say that R'hollor, who you worship with fire, is the god of light and life."

"Yes."

"Why do you worship your god of life with such a destructive force?" Shireen mumbled quietly. "I was always so afraid to ask her why?"

"You need not be afraid, Shireen. This is an educational city as much as a centre for our religion, and I have asked similar questions myself during my early days," the boy smiled. "Fire does destroy it is true, but it is also one of the greatest modes of rebirth across all known mythologies, religions and even our very history. From her husband's funeral pyre, the Mother of Dragons gave life to her children. Even you, one day, will see the day you were pulled through a fire portal as your rebirth. Fires can also destroy the darkness and bring the light. Wights, creates of death and darkness, are destroyed by fire. Whenever I think of the misuse of R'hollor's sacred power, it sickens me, but we must persevere, so light will conquer the darkness." The boy patted her hands gently, shifting off the bed again. "I will send my friends in with your bath. When you are finished, they can escort you to Quaithe's chambers. She is one of our High Priestesses and will explain everything else to you."

Xxxxxxxxx

As Shireen finished scrubbing the ash and grease from her body, alone, she watched as the lilac bathwater turn gritty and cool with the dirt that oozed from her body. She'd been dirty for so long, she'd forgotten how badly she smelled. It was strange how soft her skin felt now she was no longer riding across rocky forests and walking through fire. Stepping out of the bath, Shireen gathered the pale black dress embroidered with lace around the steep neck-collar and under-arms of the gown. It felt strange wearing something so fine as silk and lace – usually she just wore wool and cotton, despite her status, to protect her from the harsh weather of the Dragonstone and North.

The Red Apprentices who had come to help her seemed placid enough, but Shireen still didn't want them in the same room as her while she bathed and changed her clothes. Her fingers trembled whilst she strapped on the dress belonging to the Red Priests, but when she finished she remembered to steel herself before they re-entered. No matter where she was, Shireen was still a Baratheon Princess and she should command authority as such.

After she had announced she was ready, to her surprise, Shireen was not led through the door, but through the window. Her room, it turned out, was on the ground floor and could be operated by unlatching locks on either side of the window. It rotated open with ease, one in front, one behind her, and they stepped out into the midday, not that there was much of anything. As far as she could see, the sky was overcast with a soft grey cotton palette, the sun abstract.

They walked for nearly half an hour between the domed houses, temples and curved towers, some of which looped for at least a mile across the city. Like her companions, the city was silent. Everything was cast in deep shadow, some crevices so dark it was if they opened up to the depths of hell. Eventually, they came to a short building, probably no higher than three meters, but had several, thin towers sprouting out of it. Her companions lit a torch from a small bonfire at the front and escorted her inside, taking tactful care to keep it away from Shireen, for which she was grateful. They led her through several corridors, possibly towards the back of the building, after which they pushed through a door and led her up set of large, steep stairs. At the top, rather than a platform with a door, they had to climb through a trapdoor. Rather than show her inside, however, the girl in front stepped aside and gestured for Shireen to go through on her own.

Although her feet wanted to run straight back down the stairs, she carried on, twitching away from the dull heat the torch gave off from the girl's hand, and entered the room. Inside were the boy and four others, who may have been the same individuals she had met before. This time, however, only one wore a mask. The other two, like the boy, were wearing robes stitched from strips of red fabric weaved together in hexagonal patterns. The first man was tall, broad and exceptionally muscular with black skin and curled thick hair, wearing a firm and deeply upset expression, whereas the other was short, wiry and pale yet seemed to carry an inner strength. By contrast, the woman was much calmer, highlighting the softness behind her long, thin features. After looking at her for a little longer, Shireen remembered that she had been the one who carried her to her bedroom whilst she was having a panic.

"Welcome, Shireen Baratheon," she smiled gently. "I did not introduce myself earlier. I am Zhuronga, a Priestess to the Lord of Light. May I introduce my fellow Priests, Yarren and Logi," she beckoned first to the small man, then to the taller one, "Logi's apprentice, Nuski," she introduced the young boy, "and one of our most revered High Priestesses, Quaithe." Unaccustomed to the formal Asshai greeting, Shireen curtseyed deeply to each person in the room as she was introduced.

The man named Yarren, stepped forward with an easy smile gracing his features and, bypassing custom, reached a hand towards Shireen's damaged face. "I'm afraid I was unable to return to Asshai in time to conduct the ceremony that brought you, but be assured I will protect you," he whispered calmly, then shifted his eyes from hers to her cheek, smiling softly. "How brave and strong of you to survive such an affliction." Shireen said nothing, not knowing how to respond to this strange, and quite invasive man.

Steadily, he stepped back in line and directed his gaze to Quaithe, who reached forward to take Shireen's hands. "Make no mistake, Shireen, I am very glad you are alive. Someone so innocent should never have to suffer something to tragic, but I must be candid with you, if only because you deserve it."

"Thank you," Shireen coughed, trying to keep her voice level. It felt odd, standing in this room, with these people whom she couldn't help but feel a reflexive distrust and yet gratitude all at the same time.

"We serve Azor Ahai in the fight against the Great Other, as does everyone here in Asshai. Unfortunately for yourself and your family, Melisandre has misconstrued the prophecy for her own ends. She has, to use the adequate term, manufactured Stannis Baratheon into Azor Ahai for her own ends to gain power. The sword your father pulled from the statues of the burning Seven was not Lightbringer – it could not hold against the fire it was thrust into. He may have ruled in the Dragonstone – a place of smoke and salt – but he was not born there nor in any way did he undergo a ceremonial rebirth that could constitute him being Azor Ahai resurrected. The blood of the dragon runs thinly in his veins. Unlike the Mother of Dragons, Daenerys Targaryen."

"The Mad King's daughter?" Shireen prompted, ignoring Logi's snarl.

"She is not mad, she is our saviour reborn. She was born on the Dragonstone and survived the fire of her husband's pyre to birth three dragons from stone – giving life to creatures of stone through fire. The first dragons to live in thousands of years, creatures of fire and magic, and she is the one who commands them." Quaithe halted in her doctrine for the moment, breathing steadily behind the mask she wore. "But she will not be able to command Westeros alone – as much as we have our faith, disciples have always been necessary to guide our saviours."

Shireen swallowed heavily. "A disciple?"

"Those who can aid our Saviour in her quest. Shireen, you are the Daughter of the Stag and the last heir to the House of Baratheon. Forgive me for being blunt my child, but you are the daughter who has been betrayed by her father, the supposed saviour of his people. You know the people of Westeros and with training, you can rally them behind you when your time comes."

"What?" Shireen faltered. "I don't think so… you have the wrong person. Not one of those people cared enough to rescue me from that fire. They held my mother back when she tried to help me. Why would they fight for me? Besides they think I am dead?"

"You must make them fight for you!" Logi spoke deeply. "You will learn how to overcome these obstacles."

"How?" Shireen sobbed. "You say I am a disciple for your Azor Ahai. I have nothing to give to Daenerys Targaryen. My family murdered hers! She will kill me!"

"The Mother of Dragons has forever pitied those who are powerless. By the time you meet her, you will have learned how to make her see that," Quaithe spoke softer now, calming and gentle. "How you will learn, you will see before your time comes." The High Priestess straightened once more, smoothing a tear falling across her cheek away from its path. "Now, go rest child. You have a long journey starting tomorrow for Braavos. Nuski will wake you at sunrise."


	4. Returning to the Game

Unable to sleep through the night, Shireen rose before sunrise the next morning having been woken by nightmares where the flames came for her again. She could feel them biting, chewing into her flesh, twisting hot teeth around her legs, up her body and along her arms. When she woke again, her body dripping with hot sweat and freezing from the cool night air.

Rather than try to drift away again, Shireen decided to change out of her soaked nightclothes and washed herself down gently using a basin that had been left to heat on some hot coals. Earlier, when she had gone to bed, they had glowed phosphorescent red, but now they had shrivelled to an ashen grey. The bowl and water, however, were still pleasantly warm enough to wash herself in comfortably. Folding her bedding and clothes as well as she could, hoping to leave this room in good condition, Shireen changed into the travelling clothes that had been left upon a table at the end of her bed. They were thicker than the dress she had worn yesterday: green cotton diamonds weaved together using thin strips of golden velvet, layered over each other with thick folds to keep her arm and wide sleeves to help her arms move. Unlike other dresses she had worn, the dress cut off just below above the ankles, which she suspected allowed her more freedom to move. There had also been left out, a pair of fine wool stockings and black leather boots with a fur lining.

Wrapping herself in a cloak, Shireen climbed onto the window ledge so she could stretch out and try to spot the sunrise as it crept over the horizon in a blurred haze. Nothing seemed to be as it should have been in Asshai – the air was cold and the sun never seemed to escape from behind the clouds. Yet this city was supposed to lie within the hottest part of the world, almost along the equator. The temperatures should have been sweltering, yet she was wearing fur boots to keep her feet warm and an extra cloak.

Eventually a dim silver sheen began to spread from the south, with a few hues of dull gold outlining the edges of the city. Taking a deep breath, she blew upon the glass in a long line and sketched the words _Onion Knight_ into the window, before blowing over the words again. "I miss you," she whimpered.

As the message dissolved through the glass, a small amber hue held aloft by a cloaked figure rounded a corner at the end of the street. Shireen followed the face of the figure until they reached in front of her window, knocking gently. When the torch was lowered slightly, she saw it was Nuski. "Ah, good. You're already awake."

Shireen shrugged, stood and unhooked the window, quietly slipping out. It was rather odd not carrying a bag with her. To have no possessions to put even in a little draw-string bag at her hip. Even what she was wearing now was borrowed or gifted to her by the Red Priests and she did not particularly want to keep them when she was done with them.

Softy, Nuski led her quietly through the labyrinth of alleys that brought her down from wherever she had been housed to the waterfront. A strange part of Shireen felt sad that she would not have a few more days to ask questions about the city or gain a chance to explore it. Maybe under different circumstances she would have sat down with the apprentices and taken a tour of the facility, but presently, all she wished was to leave before something else could happen to her.

It took them what seemed like two whole hours before they reached the waterfront. By that time, the sun had risen further and was catching the city in the haze of an early morning dawn. The closer the pair came, she could feel the mist stirring thicken between the buildings and stirring her skirts as she walked. At one point they turned a corner and found themselves face to face with several other apprentices, whom Shireen had quickly learned to recognise by the flame prints between their eyes. There were about seven of them, three of which carried large oil lamps. As one, they turned from their conclave to start at Nuski and Shireen, faltering into small titters. Without stopping, Nuski continued leading Shireen towards the group.

Warily, she cast her eyes around the group, who stared at her with a morbid curiosity that unnerved her. Although a couple seemed rather warm and excited by her presence, most of the group reminded her a bit of Melisandre. Their expressions were coldly intense, their entire postures still. _These must be the apprentices who_ appreciate _the value of King's Blood_ , Shireen thought. For a moment, she considered turning and running, but Nuski reached behind her, fumbled for her hand and squeezed it tightly. Taking a deep breath, she continued following him, walking between the red-clad figures shifting in the breeze as if they were a walkway of fire. As Shireen and Nuski stepped between them, they parted without a word.

Once they had turned a few more corners, Shireen took a deep breathe again. "Where they some of the people who think I should be burned?"

"Some of them, yes," Nuski replied evenly. "They are apprentices to shadowbinders, like Quaithe. A few of them are genuinely fascinated by the success of our ritual, and wished to invite you to worship with them in hopes you might see something in the flames."

"Were they serious?"

"Perfectly. When the shadowbinders began making their requests to burn you or to bring you into their rituals, Quaithe threatened them upon pain of banishment. As both a High Priestess as well as a shadowbinder, she commands an authority among her fellow practitioners, especially since she mentored most of them. Her commands are obeyed."

Shireen nodded and continued to follow him. After a few more meters, they reached a street that sloped down towards the waterfront. Instead of a pier at the end, the street continued underwater with a boat fastened to the doorway of a house. Unlike the traditional rowboats, it was long and thin, probably enough room only for one person to sit in each seat. Yarren, Logi and Zhuronga were already inside, each of them holding an oar and a small knapsack each. Besides the steady folding of the water upon the street stood Quaithe, still and firm in the breeze.

"The boat you will get on shall take you to Tolos, after which you shall follow The Demon Road to Volantis, where you shall take another boat to Braavos. We hope that the frequent changes in your route will throw anyone who might follow you off your trail."

"Thank you," Shireen's voice quaked. "I do mean it, I am so grateful. You risked your lives so you could save mine. I only wish I could repay you for all you have done."

"Repay us through making your life worthwhile, Princess," Quaithe nodded solemnly. "Life is but a brief gift of R'hollor and easily snuffed out. To honour his gift is to burn the brightest you can before the wind catches you out."

Still a little uneasy with their beliefs, Shireen merely nodded and climbed into the boat, hitching up her skirts a little to try and avoid getting them wet. She tucked herself in at the front of the boat, facing forward, whilst Nuski climbed in front of her to face towards her. Shooting her a small smile, he patted her hands gently and whispered kindly, "Everything will be well, Princess. Have faith in R'hollor."

 _May I not have faith in my own Gods_ , Shireen nodded slightly, only to cast her eyes away. She dared not openly speak her mind about her continuing disgust for a religion that worshipped fire. As she stared into the muddying waters of the bank, she realised her silence was less from fear and more of respect. Breathing a little easier, as the oars began to weave in an out of the surface to push the boat along, Shireen reached underneath to trail a small finger through the darkness. Gradually, the crusting shells and stones trailing the street below disappeared into the darkness, and with the rising sun, the surface paled into gritty silver. A thick stench of salt began to permeate the air, and around her, Shireen noticed a few fish bobbing listlessly. Their bodies were bloated, decayed and poisoning the water with their oily residue.

"The water is too salty here for anything to live in," Nuski spoke quickly, drawing Shireen's attention back to him. He must have followed her gaze. "Ever living thing that drinks a mere cupful of this water dies. Some foolish apprentices have done the same before they know better."

"Why would anyone build a city here then?" Shireen asked. "Where there is no sun to grow crops and the water is too salty to live on? Where animals will not dare make their home?"

"So that no unwanted guests may disturb us, Princess," Nuski cast a small, devilish wink that transformed his face into something ugly for a moment. "Can you imagine the sort of people life would bring here? No people attracted to death are much better company to practice magic with."

The boat pulsed a little as a small wave hit the starboard side, distracting everyone long enough so Shireen could shiver without being noticed.

 **The North**

Luvnac slept upon the cliff tops in those days following Hephaesta walking into the fire. No where else could afford him the security he felt to drift off. Upon the morning when he woke, his blankets and clothes were swollen with water, and he knew her sacrifice had worked. Yet he could find no solace in such a turn of events.

As he'd stoked the pyre that had burnt out from the night before, Luvnac had stripped down his wet clothes and set them to try off on a spit. As the steam hissed from his clothes, he pushed his consciousness into the fire, desperately trying to seek out Hephaesta amongst the many fates R'hollor had a grip upon in this war. Though he saw her not, he did see Shireen curled up in a small room at Asshai and King Stannis sharpening his sword with a stony determination. Dancing around them, as if caught in a mad frenzy, were thousands of soldiers abandoning their posts in the camp and fleeing through the forest.

Then the images swelled gradually together and merged into a single woman, sickly and frail, plaiting a rope together from her dresses, tears dripping from her waxy face. Once she was done, without hesitation, she wrapped it around the strongest tree branch of a fine oak and kicked another one out from under her. Instead of rolling away from her, it cracked, spilling maggots and all other hibernating beasts into the earth. They swarmed and scattered, leaving the woman's feet hovering morosely above the ground as they twitched one last time.

"Stupid woman," Luvnac spat bitterly, feeling no pity for the Queen. He had watched in the flames how she had turned on her own brother, long before she had turned on her daughter. This woman had not held a single qualm until it was too late, and now she paid the price for her barbarity. He only wished Selys Baratheon would have had the courage to kill Melisandre before she took her own life and spared him much more trouble.

He'd spent the rest of the day seeking out Hephaesta in the fires, but to no avail. All that was shown to him was Stannis's failure at the hands of first the Bolton's, and then his own betrayal as Brienne of Tarth emerged from the cracks in the fire to deal him justice. He tries to reach out for her, hoping to catch her in Sansa Stark's flame, but she was gone as soon as her sword struck Stannis's heart.

After the sun set, not wanting to see any more of the burning Baratheon's, Luvnac redressed himself and continued his watch over the fire for two more days. A few times, he thought the Bolton scouts or Baratheon deserters might stumble upon his location, but both times they passed him by without much consequence. It was only after the third day, upon noon's peak that the pyre once again roared to life as it had done that night.

Without fear, Luvnac raised himself and gathered Hephaesta's clothes from beneath the blankets he had buried them in so they became neither stained nor damaged. The raw screaming, tight on his eardrums, nearly choked him, but he remained static, as was the custom. Gradually, the core of the fire shifted and spun, weaving itself into human form. Just as they reached their peak, the flames then died, leaving a shuddering, crisping body in its wake.

"Hephaesta!" Luvnac nearly sobbed with happiness. "I was beginning to despair that I may not see you again."

"I too," she croaked. "I too."


End file.
